


Tail End of a Dream

by lorienn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Mostly) Sane Tom Riddle, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clues and Riddles, Enemies to Lovers, Father Figure Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter's Hero Complex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Mental Health Issues, Mystery, Plot Twists, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Remorse, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24052357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorienn/pseuds/lorienn
Summary: When Harry called upon Death to pay his due, Death had smiled—a mysterious and delicate thing—and said, "Anything for a friend."Alternatively: A debt owed to Dumbledore is repaid to Harry upon his death. Now if only Harry can figure out why it has anything to do with Tom Riddle, a Serbian monastery, and a mysterious magical artifact.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald - background, Death & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	Tail End of a Dream

“What can I do to help you feel more comfortable here?” 

Harry shrugged. He took another slow, long sip of his tea, and watched as the cup refilled itself to the brim again.

Margo set down her own cup of tea with a small sigh. Her gentle features were troubled by a weary expression that Harry found her sporting more and more frequently since Headmistress McGonagall appointed the Mind Healer to sessions with the older students. She was young—no older than thirty—but she looked like she had aged years since Harry first met her.

“Harry,” Margo said, her voice soft and soothing. “I am _truly_ sorry for everything that has happened to you,” Harry resisted the urge to grimace, “And I understand that it is not easy for someone who has been through what you have to open up. But I cannot do my job if you don’t give me anything to work with.” 

Margo held his gaze, tired eyes overflowing with sincerity. Harry looked away as guilt creeped into his chest. 

The truth was that Harry did not need Margo to tell him any of those things. He knew that she only wished to help him, and he regretted wearing her patience thin. But Harry did not have anything to say. Since the War, his thoughts have floated around on sound and sight; anything deeper suppressed as soon as it emerged. If he allowed any of those feelings to bubble up to the surface—even for a second—he knew it would splinter him into shards. The War had eroded him into a mere shell of his former self and he had no other option but to tread carefully lest the cracks at his edges spread any further than they already had. 

It was a delicate charade his life had become, when the only thing he could do was pretend. Pretend that he wasn’t a monster. Pretend that he deserved anything kinder than Azkaban when the choices _he_ made had not sent hundreds of innocent people spiralling to their death. Pretend that there was anything special or important about him for anyone to have fought and bled and _died_ for him. Pretend that he was no longer haunted by the lunatic he defeated but lost to anyway in the end. 

And, sometimes, if Harry pretended convincingly enough, he could almost forget. Forget that, when Colin Creevey waved hello to him in the corridors with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, Harry was the reason he buried his brother, and countless others: their sisters and mothers and fathers and cousins, as well as any hope they had for anything different. Forget that the only family he’d ever truly belonged to was not irreparably crushed by the sheer weight of what they had sacrificed for _Harry_. Forget that he wasn’t any different than Voldemort when he let countless people’s lives and hopes and dreams be slashed away so he could live in the end. 

He could _pretend_ and _forget_ and bury the feelings beneath years of counterfeit adequacy, perfecting his veneer until it is the only thing even he knew of himself. But Harry could not rid of the heavy, terrible beast that weighed down on his chest and made it hard to sleep, speak, breathe, or do anything but exist until the early hours of the morning; his body sluggish as his thoughts jostled around his head, replaying every failure, telling foreboding tales of the future, whispering about the futility of it all. 

“I didn’t ask for this.” The words left Harry’s mouth almost against his will. Whether he was referring to his sessions with Margo or the War or terrible injustice his whole life had been _,_ Harry did not know, but it didn’t matter. And it might not have ever mattered. He didn’t ask for _any_ of it and in the throes of the War, Harry had foolishly believed that the moment it was over, he could finally find relief. But the War could have lasted a hundred years, and the agony of it would still pale in comparison to the terrible ache he has felt ever since. Do you win if you lose? 

Margo only smiled sadly at Harry, and hardly said a word when he hurried out the door the second the clock struck twelve.

* * *

“Potter,” Malfoy greeted as he approached the secluded corridor behind the kitchens where Harry waited. Malfoy scanned the corridor before slipping Harry a small vial shining with a bright lilac liquid. 

“Thank you,” Harry muttered, gently tucking the Sleeping Draught into the pocket of his robes. 

Malfoy nodded, his expression cool and distant. Harry’s cordial interactions with Malfoy had become one of the few reprieves in Harry’s life since he returned to Hogwarts. Harry appreciated that Malfoy didn’t revere—never revered—Harry the way everyone else in his life had at some point or another. Malfoy repaid his debt to Harry for salvaging Malfoy’s freedom and his life quietly and without any fuss. And isn’t that the only thing Harry had ever wanted—for someone to treat him like he’s normal? Harry distinctly wondered if Malfoy hadn’t been indoctrinated by his father’s poisonous beliefs, whether they could have been good friends. 

As Harry made to leave, Malfoy called out his name. Harry turned, surprised, and watched as Malfoy avoided his eyes. 

“Mother, she… sends you her regards,” Malfoy told him, grimacing as soon as the words left his mouth as if they physically pained him to say.

For a moment, Harry was dumbstruck. Then he felt desperate to get away. He gave Malfoy a quick nod, and turned back on his heel—pretending he didn’t feel Malfoy’s gaze boring into his back as he left. 

* * *

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall called after Harry as he made his way to class later that same day. 

Harry met the Headmistress’ eyes, who beckoned for Harry to follow her. Harry turned to his friends and gestured for them to head off without him. Hermione gave him a gentle smile and squeezed his hand as Ron nodded, “We’ll see you later, mate.” 

McGonagall had begun walking again when Harry caught up to her. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Mr. Potter.” 

Harry made a small noise in affirmation. He wondered what kind of terrible news the usually forthright Headmistress had for him that she felt the need to preface it with small talk. 

“How have your sessions with Ms. Park been recently?” McGonagall asked, as they made their way through the corridor. Harry stopped in his tracks. 

“Is something the matter, Mr. Potter?” 

Harry sighed. “Look, Professor. I don’t know what Margo told you, but whatever it is, I _will_ try to do better,” McGonagall raised her eyebrows at him, but Harry continued, “Just, please don’t force me into any more sessions, okay? It’s the last thing I need right now.” 

McGonagall’s eyes softened as she looked at him. “That’s not why I wanted to talk to you, Harry.” 

Harry faltered, feeling foolish. “Oh.” 

“Come along,” McGonagall said as they approached the entrance to her office, murmuring a quiet “Gobstones” to the Gargoyle. 

Harry shuffled in after her, and reluctantly took a seat. He scanned the portraits lining the wall and the books stacked onto high shelves to avoid meeting her eyes. 

McGonagall smiled at him. “Looks the same, doesn’t it?” Harry nodded. “I haven’t had the heart to redecorate,” McGonagall told him quietly. Her eyes suddenly looked far away, and Harry knew she, too, ached with loss. 

“Anyway,” the Headmistress started again. “The reason I called you in here is because I have something that belongs to you, Mr. Potter.” 

“What is it?” asked Harry hesitantly, as McGonagall placed a large glass encasement before him. Inside was a beautiful hexagonal prism shimmering with bright purple light. It was mounted on a dark blue pedestal embroidered with gold. 

"A polytope,” McGonagall replied, her eyes illuminated by the shining object. “An ancient magical artifact. This one is likely the last of its kind.” 

“It’s beautiful,” Harry whispered, entranced by the beautiful, vibrant color of the artifact and the violet wisps that flickered all around it. 

The Headmistress nodded. “Professor Dumbledore, before he,” she stopped abruptly, her breath hitching. McGonagall cleared her throat before continuing. “He left this in my possession to give to you when it was appropriate. I believe the time has come.” 

Harry furrowed his brow. “What am I supposed to do with it?” 

The Headmistress hummed thoughtfully and swirled her wand in the air. An envelope the same shade of violet as the object before him promptly appeared in her hand. “Inside are the instructions the old Headmaster left for you.” She handed Harry the letter, “They will help you make good use of it. I would recommend you read them as soon as you are alone.” 

“I don’t understand, Professor,” Harry blurted. “Why would Dumbledore leave something important for me to use _now?_ The War’s been over for months.” 

McGonagall smiled tightly at Harry. “It has nothing to do with the War, Harry.”

“Then what is it for?” Harry asked, bemused. 

"For _you_ ,” McGonagall replied simply, _cryptically_ , though her expression was kind _._

Harry shook his head. “I am not special anymore, Professor."

McGonagall was silent for a long moment. Her next words were quiet. “You _are_ special, Harry, and you deserve a good life.” 

Harry laughed bitterly. “I think it’s too late for that.” His grip involuntarily tightened on the purple envelope, its edges creasing under his fingers. 

“Never too late,” the Headmistress insisted. In one quick motion, she transfigured the polytope into a small orb, placing it inside a drawstring pouch. “Use this wisely, Mr. Potter."


End file.
